


sometimes brittle, never broken

by logorrhea



Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Affection, Asphyxiation, Begging, F/M, Masochism, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Denial, PWP, Power Play, Pre-Canon, Restraints, Switching, Toys, electroshock, roleplaying, straitjackets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 07:14:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7705450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/logorrhea/pseuds/logorrhea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As coping mechanisms go, nostalgia is as good as any.<br/>Or: the perks of sleeping with your (ex-)therapist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sometimes brittle, never broken

**Author's Note:**

> Imagine a car flipped onto its side, sinking slowly into the mud, with its wheels still valiantly spinning, spinning, spinning. The car is me and the mud is Joker/Harley from SS.

Her Puddin still has his episodes. They're less common now, though this is more to do with the number of incidents rather than a lessening of triggers.

The most irritating is selflessness in law enforcement. The Joker's position allows him to never deal with cops, so he can continue believing they're still the same fuckers who ruined his life. The reality is, even in Gotham, genuinely stupidly kind people somehow make it -- past training and up the ranks.

They're at a diner, after opening hours, negotiating a weapons' trade with some of the Penguin's men. There's a firefight outside and it's neither party's business. The man the Penguin sent crows when the cops are beaten back and his glee makes her Puddin give a second glance.

Just in time to see a middle-aged woman crawl out from underneath an officer's body.

It's not a surefire trigger, so while she feels him tense, she leans into him, lackadaisically wondering if the situation could be salvaged. If she wanted it to be salvaged.

The slight shift in posture has alerted their conversation partner, who crooks an eyebrow underneath his fully tinted glasses.

"Is something the matter, Mister J?"

Her Puddin finishes off his drink before answering, setting down the glass and swirling the leftover ice cubes against the table before turning to the momentarily-abandoned body.

"Where were you."

"Excuse me?"

She makes a throat-slitting motion. While this schmuck was a sight for sore eyes, the Penguin didn't have adoring throngs of disposable followers.

"Where. Were. You." He Puddin hurls the glass and it shatters into the mirrors.

"Woah, woah, woah, Mister J., I don't wanna offend you -- "

"Puddin," she tries, sidling up to him and snaking an arm around his waist, "Let's -- "

"I like you very much Harley-pie," he interrupts, whirling on her and grabbing at her face, "So if you'll stay in the corner there, I promise not to kill you."

The henchman uses this lull to make himself scarce. She heaves a sigh before doing as told. There wasn't much to do when her Puddin was on the cusp of a rampage.

A part of her remembers. These acts of violence are manifestations of his emotions. Anger, frustration, betrayal, disbelief. Like her, Mr. J. had lived within society's rules for so long. Unlike her, Mr. J. didn't have anyone to lead him astray.

It is a tragedy of circumstances, she knows.

But he's so fucking _beautiful_ in these moments -- out of his mind without a care in the world -- uprooting carpet, shattering glass, overturning foundation tiles, if she had any part in this, she would call it a masterpiece.

And at the end of it, when he's sauntering towards her, uncharacteristically dour, she remains crouched, forcing him to stoop to her level.

"Harley-pie," he says, smelling of cement and sweat, "Let's go home."

"Mm," she takes his hand, shivering in anticipation, "Take me home, Puddin-pie."

-

Every one of their residences comes with a basement. It was good security, for one, and the dingy windowless lower rooms take them both back.

After he's exhausted himself, her Puddin likes to be heaved into a straitjacket. The kind they put him in when they were both at the asylum.

While she's preparing herself -- netting her hair and donning a blond wig, scrubbing the makeup from her face and fishing out a pair of thick-rimmed glasses -- she thinks of him. He would certainly be immobile, but would he have asked to be gagged? Would they have strapped him to the seat, or would he still be stuck in the carrier?

When she looks in the mirror, her transformation is finished. She's sporting a lab coat that goes past her knees rather than a sports tee three sizes too small. Her leggings have been exchanged for business shorts, the kind with real pockets. And her myriad tattoos and piercings have been diminished to two: single carat diamonds on each ear.

She blows her old self a kiss before stepping out of the drawing room. God, she thinks, how lucky she was that Mr. J. found her when he had! To think she had been planning to go the rest of her life looking like _that_!

-

"Ah, Dr. Quinzel," her Puddin greets, already in costume and character. Like herself, he's gone back to when they first met: his hair is duller, calmer, slicked back with spit and gel. He's seated in a chair, snugly strapped in the straitjacket and oh, this scene brings her back.

"Mr. J.," she answers, "Always a pleasure."

They make small talk, light and airy and often flirtatious and oh god, she had almost forgotten how horny her Puddin could make her feel, just by running his tongue against the edge of his teeth. And he never says anything untoward either, neither of them do. If someone were recording their conversation, they would be the perfect lady and gentleman. Well, doctor and patient, but the difference was the same.

What pleasure does he take from this, Harley couldn't say. But he does enjoy it, that much is certain, especially when he's asking her for some banal favor -- adjusting the light, picking up a dropped pen, reaching for the top of the cabinet without getting on her chair -- anything which allowed him to see more of her.

Perhaps this whole game and every episode is another means to tie her to him. She has to bite back a smile, thinking of it, and feigns shyness when he compliments her, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

Their sessions at Arkham had stretched for hours. But then, talking was all they could do.

She's so close to wrenching her wig off and kissing him across the table, game rules be damned, when her Puddin finally acquiesces, blinking slowly before looking at her in a new light.

"Harley-pie, sweetheart," he beckons, breaking the rules himself, "Won't you let me kiss you?"

Just once. Pretty pretty please?

She flutters her lashes, squirming in her seat before leaning over with a smile.

"I thought you'd never ask," she whispers, right before he closes the distance.

It's a chaste kiss, absolutely boring, and he tuts against her mouth when she tries to make it something more. And then there's the rip of straitjacket fabric as he grabs at her shoulders, leaping over the table to force them both to the floor.

With the wind knocked out of her, she lies flat on her back, chest heaving, and when her vision rights itself, he's already pulled off her wig and is hard at work rubbing the concealer from her skin. All while straddling her, so that she could feel his erection with every jagged motion.

She struggles in-turn, ripping her coat and shirt in the process and he smiles, crazed but indolent, indulgent enough so that she can dig her nails into his shirt, almost but not quite breaking skin.

They're a thrashing mess of limbs for a moment, filled with adrenaline and short of breath, and when she sees his dilated pupils above her own hands around his neck, she stops.

They look more ridiculous than usual, with smeared makeup and ripped clothes. They look as if someone dropped them out of a time machine mid-cycle, looking like neither here nor here.

She lets go of his neck and he seizes one of her hands, kissing it with rapture. At this point, she's already smiling. He breaks into a grin and she laughs.

"Puddin," she murmurs, "Who'll start?"

"Ladies first," he answers, cupping her breast.

Harley kisses him, feeling touched. "You spoil me," she almost-chides before rolling out from underneath him.

"What'll it be, puppet?" he asks, stretched out on the floor, "Nails? Tape? Wires?"

"Hush you," she shushes, pushing the holding chair over, "You like surprises."

"Love 'em."

Her Puddin stands up, discarding the remnants of his jacket and shirt before plopping into the chair, stretching his arms and legs like it was a first-class seat.

"Well?" he prompts, swiveling around at her, "Surprise me, Harley-pie."

She kisses him properly in response, wide open mouths and greedy greedy tongues. He tastes like her, like them, with a bit of whiskey and blood, and moans appreciatively when she runs her hands across his chest, tracing his collarbone and ribs. When she breaks it off, he looks at her, as hungry as if she were still wearing the lab coat, and she laughs, savoring it.

"Patience, patience," she hums, sorting through the tangle of wires.

The asylum would have never given her such fun toys.

"Ah! Here they are!" she pulls the transistor set out, setting it before him, in plain view, before kissing him again.

"Sweetie pie," he groans, gesturing to his dick, "You're teasing me."

"Ah ah ah," she tsks, pulling back and getting to work strapping him in, "Remember Puddin, this is for your own good." Alright, so maybe she spreads his legs a little wider than necessary and maybe she cops a feel too. As if he wouldn't do the same.

When her Puddin is finally secured to the chair, she carefully runs three wires underneath his index, middle, and ring fingers, before doing the same with his other hand.

"You're too good to me," he purrs.

Harley silences him with a leather gag. And then she flicks the switch.

The reaction is instantaneous.

Watching her Puddin tremble and spasm is nothing short of electrifying. There's nothing prettier than this, she knows, to see his eyes roll back. Drool is leaking and the front of his pants is wet with precome and she can't stop herself.

It's only the medium setting, and even she can feel the current, dropping to her knees and unzipping his pants, thumbing at his cockhead before taking the whole thing in her mouth.

She comes when he gags, left with enough sense of mind to turn it off. She leaves the wires in for a moment longer -- he looks so _good_ with them, after all.

In time, his breath returns to normal and his eyes flutter open. She looks up at him when he raises his head, reaching up to take the gag out.

"Come here," he rasps, and she clambers onto his lap.

"You're so good," he praises, freeing his arms from the restraints to wrap around her. "Daddy's favorite monster, my little Harley-pie."

"Puddin," she moans, "Puddin -- "

He lets her drag his hand to her still-covered crotch, lets her rut against his palm for a bit. Then he's the one tsk'ing, maneuvering her so her arms were wrapped around him. And then he resumes his palming, only slipping against her skin when her throat is sore from whining.

Her Puddin proves himself a joker through and through, somehow pulling a toy from thin air and pressing it inside of her.

"That's cheating," she weakly protests, as he's slipping his hand out and holding her hips steady.

"Too bad," he smiles, trailing up her curves, "It's my turn now, pumpkin."

With her arms about him, and herself soundly straddling his lip, her Puddin snakes an arm around her waist before cupping her face with his other hand.

"You're a good girl, aren't you, Harley-pie?" he asks her, with a soft voice and dark dark eyes.

"Yes," she sobs, grinding against him and burying her face in the crook of his neck, "Puddin, please -- "

"Harley, Harley, Harley..." he scratches at her hair, thumbing at the back of her neck, before his hand wedges itself between them, pushing her away while encircling her windpipe.

"Look at you," he coos as she's gnashing her teeth.

So pretty.

So so so pretty.

"Come for Daddy," he murmurs, squeezing a little tighter.

She does. With curled toes and dug-in nails, with her head thrown back and then jerked forward, he makes her feel like a rag doll and she loves every fucking second. And because he's her Puddin, he doesn't let her down from this high, no, he jacks up the speed of the toy in her pussy so that she's cresting from orgasm to orgasm.

-

It ends with her thoroughly fucked out, and he hasn't even put his dick in her, the jerk, but she can't even voice her complaints when his hand is sliding back underneath her shorts, can barely bare her teeth in mock-irritation.

His fingers linger and she can barely feel them.

"Fuck," she moans, when he slowly extracts his hand, licking himself clean inches from her face. " _Fuck_."

He kisses her at least, tracing patterns on her skin as she falls asleep against him.

-

Come morning and she wakes in the master bedroom on the second floor. Her Puddin is already up and at 'em, poring over his plans once more, and she pads right past him, helping herself to his leftovers.

If they were still at Arkham, maybe they would have talked it over. But then, there would have been no sex and therefore, no need for conversation.

As she twirls a lock of hair, the Joker eventually looks up and she licks the crumbs from her fingers, watching her watch him.

"Puddin," she starts, "I'm bored."

He glances down to his plans before sweeping them to the floor.

"And we can't have that, now can we?" he growls, towering over her.

"No," she preens, standing up and letting herself be swept away, "We can't."


End file.
